


The one where Dad Egbert and Dad Crocker are middle-aged catboys.

by Caracalliope



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Acceptance, Cat/Human Hybrids, Confessions, F/M, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26758084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caracalliope/pseuds/Caracalliope
Summary: or:WHEREIN TWO ADULT GUARDIAN FIGURES BETRAY THEIR FELINE GENETIC SECRET; DUE TO XENOCULTURAL DIFFERENCES, NEITHER IS CULLED; TWO ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS PROVIDE ROMANTIC TENSION;RATED APPROPRIATE FOR GENERAL AUDIENCES;(OLIVES AND ABOVE MAY APPLY TO THE CONDESCENSORSHIP BUREAU FOR ACCESS TO THE MEOWBEAST PUN EXTENDED EDITION);
Relationships: Dad Crocker/Draconian Dignitary, Dad Egbert/Rose's Mom | Beta Roxy Lalonde
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Dad Egbert's POV

At times, courtesy had to override one’s comfort. Madame Lalonde deserved every ounce of Egbert’s respect, as a parent and a warrior as well as a lady. If she wished him to remove his hat in her presence, he would comply, and let the banana peel fall where it would.

“Oh, _sweetheart_ ,” she exclaimed as his uncouth ears unfolded and twitched. “You weren’t kidding about the enhancements.”

“My mother knew her way around a Petri dish,” he murmured. He had worked hard to improve his diction, but occasionally, he could not keep the purr away from his consonants. “And all other dishes, of course.”

“Sure, 'fcourse,” Madame Lalonde agreed. “Gotta wonder why she chose her kid to experiment on though.”

“It was a gift,” Egbert said. “Perhaps one that was not wholly thought through.”

Madame’s hand smelled of sweetened milk and imp viscera. It took all of Egbert’s willpower to avoid rubbing against it as it neared his cheek.

“Okay,” she says, “I know all about dumbass maternal gifts, I guess. And Petri dishes. Not the other kind of dish, which may be ob-vee-ess from our shared meals.”

“I can cook,” Egbert said, overly eager, insufficiently poised. The lack of elegance made him feel like an embarrassment to his gender and - and his subspecies.

“I know you can, honey,” Lalonde smiled at him, warm as a fresh loaf of bread. “So is it just the ears, or -”

Without his full permission, Egbert’s hand rose to cover his upper lip. Lalonde, in response, turned gleeful.

“Perhaps you can see, ma’am, why a rigorously upheld shaving schedule is the best option for me even in these apocalyptic conditions. I am afraid the alternative would not necessarily be ‘hella rugged’.” He sounded mildly peeved, and he still was, mainly at himself.

He would have been happy to give her anything she liked, excessive facial hair included, and she always seemed so disappointed when he shaved. Presumably, she would understand his rationale.

“No,” she agreed, “it would necessarily be _hella-fuckin'-dorable_. When you grow your whiskers out, are they sensitive?”

Egbert could and would only blame his genetic makeup for the blush that ran up his cheeks.

Lalonde winked and she placed his hat on her lovely head. It was tilted at an angle, looking fetching and not at all businesslike. Egbert likely could have asked her to let his feline shame lie dormant again. But what was the harm in flaunting it, just for a few days? He would hide his ears and cull the whiskers before he met up with John. His boy was a sensitive, upstanding child, and there was no need to worry him with such things.


	2. The dignitary's POV

You felt the scrape of claws on your carapace when the prisoner shoved you out of harm’s way. It does things to a guy, getting shoved like that.

You ask the droll if there’s any marks on your shoulder blades. He says sure, three white lines, you can barely see it though, and why do they call them blades anyway. You say you’ll show him blades. He gives you a pitying look before he scampers away from your dagger and your glare. Can’t let the crew slow down while the boss is away playing fetch.

The prisoner smiles at you when you visit him in his cell. You think it’s a smile. You wish you got to see his teeth more often.

He asks, do you have more tie samples to show him. You say shut the fuck up for a sec. He shoots you a look that says, he’s not the boss of you but you’re sure not the boss of him. You say please. He does smile. His incisors, at least, are reassuringly sharp.

You order him to give you his hand. He obliges. It’s big and warm, softer than any part of a person should be. But you adapt. You didn’t get to be a murderous dictator’s right-hand crook without a whole lot of adapting. You press down on his palm, and five soundless blades appear on the ends of his fingers.

Ah, he says. He figured a sharp character might have noticed those, he says. He hopes it doesn’t change anything about the terms of his stay.

You’re the only one who gets to set the terms of his stay, you say. You say it real close to his face, and your fists are creasing his shirt collar. He says he sees what you mean. You say he’d better.

You apologize for pawnhandling his shirt. You have standards and you weren’t meeting them just then.

He says he could have escaped when the explosion happened. He says you obviously know that. You say well why didn’t he then.

He doesn’t say anything but he gives you his hand back. You grab on to it. You didn’t get where you are today by turning down good deals or wondering what brought them on. His fingers curl around yours and you hold your breath waiting for his next move.


End file.
